


Pay It Forward

by Shadowcatxx



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Secret Crush, Selfless Acts, Strangers to Friends, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:07:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24918832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowcatxx/pseuds/Shadowcatxx
Summary: Gilbert is having a great day. Antonio’s day is okay. Francis’ is bad. Lovino’s is worse. This is the story of a single day, and how one person’s actions effected more people than he ever intended; how one person’s words meant more than can ever be said.
Relationships: Germany/North Italy (Hetalia), South Italy/Spain (Hetalia)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 55





	Pay It Forward

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya
> 
> I wrote this spontaneously today when I should have been working. I wrote it, because I think it’s really easy to forget—especially right now—that we’re all people who try our best, who have thoughts and feelings that matter, and who are all living this life together. I wrote it because I think most people are full of good, not bad, and to remind myself that it’s the good in us that lasts. I think I just wanted to reinforce myself today with some good feels, and so I hope that’s what this story is for you, too. A reminder that our words and actions can reach a lot further than we ever intend. :)
> 
> CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance):
> 
> PRUSSIA — Gilbert Beilschmidt  
> AUSTRIA — Roderich Edelstein  
> SPAIN — Antonio Fernández Carriedo  
> SWITZERLAND — Basch Zwingli  
> FRANCE — Francis Bonnefoi  
> ITALY — Feliciano Vargas  
> CANADA — Mathieu Bonnefoi  
> GERMANY — Ludwig Beilschmidt  
> ROMANO — Lovino Vargas  
> DENMARK — Mikkel Densen  
> NORWAY — Bjørn Thomassen

**GILBERT**

We’re excited to have you on-board, Mr. Beilschmidt. I think you’ll make a fine addition to our team.”

“Thank-you, sir,” said Gilbert, taking the CEO’s hand—brief, firm squeeze, just like father had taught him, then release; that’s how you made an impression with your handshake. “I look forward to working with everyone here, as well.”

Gilbert smiled cheerfully at the other employees as he passed them, then thanked the secretary for his earlier assistance. If he hadn’t rescued Gilbert from an awkward encounter in a corridor he was not supposed to be in, because he had gotten lost looking for the office, he would have been late to the interview.

“How do you like your coffee?” Gilbert asked him. “I know a really good place close by. Tomorrow it’s on me.”

“I don’t drink coffee, only mineral water,” said the secretary primly.

“Oh. Uh, okay.” Gilbert hesitated. “I guess I’ll just see you tomorrow then? Uh, thanks again, Mr. Edelstein.”

“Roderich, if you prefer. And—” the ghost of a smile softened the man’s fair face; when he looked up, Gilbert saw that his eyes were a deep, dark indigo, “—congratulations, Mr. Beilschmidt, and welcome to our company.”

“Gilbert,” Gilbert backtracked and officially offered Roderich his hand. The Austrian’s was soft and slender, the nails manicured to perfection. “So, just mineral water? Really?”

Roderich’s long, black lashes fanned-out when his lids lowered, a scandalous glint in his eyes. “I _might_ have a weakness for cheese Danish.”

Gilbert smiled gallantly. “Cheese Danish it is, then.”

He left Roderich with his gratitude, then strode past the elevators and into the stairwell. There, he pulled out his cell-phone and eagerly dialed.

“Lud? I got it! I got the job!”

“ _You did_? _That’s great_ , _Gil_. _All of that hard work finally paid off_.”

“I have my own office and everything! An office with actual walls and a door and a window! On the sixteenth floor!” he reported excitedly. “Plus, my boss’ secretary is smoking hot.”

“ _One thing at a time_ ,” Ludwig advised, chuckling.

Gilbert practically leapt down the last flight of stairs and burst out into the late-November cold. He was feeling quite good about himself and his accomplishments, and couldn’t wait to brag that evening at their weekly family supper. His cousin, Mikkel, might be getting married in a couple of months, but now Gilbert had something equally as exciting for his relatives to gush over. Tonight, _he_ would be the centre-of-attention, and Mikkel would have to congratulate _him_. Gilbert was going to savour that moment.

He strut around the block into a public parking lot—starting tomorrow he would have his own parking permit in the office building’s underground, paid for by the company; no more bleeding himself dry on public parking fees!—and found his car precisely where he had left it. However, now there was a car parked in the spot beside his; though, _parked_ was a generous description. Whomever had left it must have been in a hurry, because it was crooked, obstructing two parking spots, and nearly crashed into a fire hydrant.

Gilbert whistled low in pity when he saw the parking violation ticket trapped under the windshield wipers.

He looked thoughtfully from the ticket to the fire hydrant and back again. Then he checked the balance in his wallet.

A smile stole across his face as he pulled a pen and notepad out of his pocket and began to write.

* * *

**ANTONIO**

Please, please, please can’t you just date-stamp it for today? It’s only—” he glanced at his wristwatch, “—five minutes past five! I’m only five minutes late! I bet the post hasn’t even gone out yet, right? _Please_? It’s for my brother’s birthday tomorrow. My parents will kill me if it’s not there on time!”

The postmaster exhaled a deep, long-suffering sigh. “Toni Carriedo,” he said, shaking his head as he stamped the parcel, “you’ll be late to your own funeral someday.”

“Ah, thank-you, _thank-you_!” Antonio gushed, extending his arms toward the postmaster, who retreated a step. “Seriously, Basch, I owe you one!”

“Uh huh,” hummed Basch, unamused. “Doesn’t your shift start at six o’clock?”

“Oh shit!” Antonio stuffed his—now empty—wallet into his jean’s back pocket and hurried out, calling: “You’re the best!”

He jogged around the block to the public parking lot, where he had left his beater. He hoped he still had enough time to get a coffee before work, because he struggled through the nightshift without one—or two, or three. He was just turning the key in the ignition when a flash of paper caught his eye. It was trapped under the windshield wiper and his heart sank at the sight of it.

“Oh no. Oh no, no, no,” he chanted, jumping out of the car. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me!” he hollered, reading the ticket. He glared at the fire hydrant, which he was pretty sure hadn’t been there ten minutes ago. He hadn’t seen it, if it had.

“Fuck,” he slumped, running a hand through his curly hair. He had just spent the last of his paycheck sending a stupid birthday gift to his stupid—read: perfectly lovely—older brother.

_Maybe I can appeal it_?

He glanced again at the offending fire hydrant, then at the overhead traffic camera. Damn.

He would have to beg his manager for an advance on his pay. That, or live on saltine crackers next month. And he had been doing so well with his finances lately, too! That’s why he had splurged on his stupid—read: delightfully sweet—brother’s birthday gift!

That’s when an envelope fell out of his hand.

No, not an envelope—just several folded pieces of paper. He had thought the bundle was all part of the ticket; though, in retrospect, the ticket was just a soul-crushing piece of paper thin enough to spit through. This faux envelope was made of notebook paper.

Curiously, Antonio unfolded one page to reveal a note. It said:

_I’m having a really good day and didn’t want this to ruin yours. This one’s on me._

Antonio had barely finished reading the cryptic note when two-hundred euro fell out onto the pavement.

He stared at it, bewildered, and then mystified. Carefully, he crouched and collected all the banknotes, looking from them to the stranger’s message and back again.

A smile curled his lips, then nearly split his face. He laughed joyfully as he returned to the driver’s seat. He felt lighter, somehow. Grateful. And not only because he could now afford to pay the fine.

As his beater rumbled to life, Antonio’s smile fell into something soft and thoughtful.

“Thanks, man,” he said to no one. "I owe you one."

* * *

**FRANCIS**

This isn’t what I ordered.”

“Oh, isn’t it? I’m sorry,” Francis smiled his sweetest, most appeasing smile. “I’ll remake it for you.”

He took the paper coffee cup and reluctantly dumped the wasted time, money, and ingredients down the drain with a grimace.

“I ordered peppermint topping and that was chocolate,” the customer insisted, crossing his arms.

“Sorry for that,” Francis repeated, getting to work remaking the impractically specific order all over again.

“And it was too hot. Can you make it cooler this time?” It was an order, not a request. “I should be able to drink it right away without scalding my tongue,” he grumbled, drumming his knuckles impatiently on the counter.

_Its boiling water_ , _of course it’s hot_! is what Francis wanted to retort, but he didn’t.

Instead, he gave the fussy businessman another smile, and said: “Yes sir, I’ll do my best.”

“I mean, how hard is it to make a fucking cup of coffee? You people are way too overpaid for what you do. And _don’t_ do. I’m not tipping,” he said, matter-of-fact. “I wouldn’t anyway, because your prices are ridiculous, but now I’m going to be late for a meeting because of you.”

Francis bit his lip and focused on his task, refusing to turn around and face the man until the order was ready. Even then, he didn’t make eye-contact.

“I’m sorry for the wait, sir. I hope you enjoy.”

“I’d better,” the man snapped, taking his coffee and leaving without a backward glance.

Francis sighed and returned to the café’s register to take the next order. Because a coworker had called in sick, he had been on his feet working since six o’clock that morning, and it was now nearly six in the evening. He really didn’t want to smile anymore, but he did, because that was the café’s policy— _service with a smile_!—and smiles yielded better tips than scowls. Usually. Besides, if he stopped smiling just then he might start crying, and he _really_ didn’t want to cry at work again.

“Welcome,” he said brightly to the customer. “What can I get for you today?”

“A large black coffee, please,” said the man, whose Spanish accent was thick and rich.

Francis relaxed a little, grateful for the simple order. Then the Spaniard reconsidered:

“Actually,” he said, fanning through the banknotes in his wallet. He looked contemplative for a moment, then nodded decisively. “Can you make that twelve large black coffees?”

Francis blinked.

The Spaniard smiled. “For my coworkers,” he explained, then added: “I’m having a pretty good day.”

Francis found himself smiling in reply, as if warmed by the Spaniard’s good mood. “Coming right up,” he said. “I’ll just need to make another pot.”

“Take your time, I’m in no hurry.”

There were no other patrons in the queue, and no other baristas working behind the counter, so the Spaniard lingered while Francis set the coffee to brew.

“Cute patch,” he said, pointing to the rainbow patch sewn onto Francis’ apron, which read: BEST PAPA!

“Thanks,” Francis smiled, touching it fondly. “My son gave it to me when I started working here. Well, _I_ bought it, but he picked it out and handed it to me. He’s three.”

He waited for the inevitable follow-up question: _How old are you_? Twenty, Francis would reply honestly, and then receive polite indifference or—occasionally—a judging or concerned frown in return.

“I bet he’s a little mischief-maker then, huh? My parents said I was a terror at that age—though, to be fair, they still say that about me sometimes. Is he a chatterbox? Kids tend to like their voices once they find them.”

Francis paused, taken aback by the positive reception. Then he laughed. “Oh no, my Mathieu is an angel. He’s the sweetest boy in the whole world,” he bragged shamelessly. “Do you work with children?”

“Not yet,” said the Spaniard, helping Francis to fit the many coffee cups into treys. “I’m taking Early Childhood Education, though. Right now I work at the factory around the corner. Nightshift,” he groaned.

“I’m the opposite,” Francis confessed, feeling a sudden kinship with the stranger. “Work during the day and night school in the evening. I’m taking Graphic Design,” he shared.

“Awesome!” the Spaniard gave him a thumbs-up. A second later it turned into a handshake. “I’m Antonio. You can call me Toni.”

“Francis,” Francis replied.

“Well, Toni,” he said, nudging the coffee treys toward him, “I hope that your night is as good as your day. Will I see you here again?”

“Is this a marketing ploy?” Antonio teased. “They put their prettiest barista on the register to keep me coming back?”

“Not intentionally,” Francis smiled, ballooned by the compliment. “You’ll come back because I make the best coffee in the city.” He winked.

Antonio chuckled, then nodded. “Fair enough.

“What’s your son’s name, again?”

“Mathieu.”

Antonio slid a one-hundred euro banknote across the counter. “That’s a good name,” he said.

“Oh. Sorry,” Francis apologized. “I’ll have to get you change from the back. I’ll just be a second.”

He hurried into the back office, where the safe was kept. It didn’t take him long to exchange the one-hundred euro note for many smaller ones, but when he returned to the register Antonio was gone. Francis scanned the tiny café, which was empty of everyone but a few student regulars, then he ran out onto the street. He looked from left-to-right, but didn’t see the Spaniard anywhere.

“Antonio?” he called fruitlessly.

A gust of frigid November wind forced him back into the café, still holding the money in disbelief.

When he tallied up Antonio’s bill, it came to thirty-six euro, which meant that Francis was left holding a sixty-four euro tip in his hand.

He carefully tucked the money into his pocket, touching the rainbow patch as he did. Then he smiled to himself and brushed a tear from his eye, having once again broken his rule about not crying at work.

* * *

I’m sorry I’m late again, Feli,” called Francis, kicking the flat’s door closed behind him. “I had to make a stop on my way home after class.”

“No problem,” said Feliciano, turning off the television.

The high-schooler was stretched out on the second-hand sofa, wrapped-up in a blanket featuring Winnie-the-Pooh, and snuggling a drowsy three-year-old, who rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he roused.

“ _Papa_!” Mathieu burst, leaving his babysitter and scrambling up to greet his father. His run was lurching and clumsy on short legs still soft with baby-fat, his cheeks were rosy, his violet eyes sparkled, and his smile filled his whole beautiful face. “I missed you, Papa!” he said, barreling into Francis’ open arms.

Francis lifted him and kissed his cheeks. “I missed you too, baby. Were you good for Feli today?”

“Mattie’s always good,” Feliciano reported, extricating himself from the nest. “He helped me study for Math, didn’t you, Mattie?”

Mathieu nodded, coyly proud. “With blocks,” he explained, pointing to a pile of wooden building blocks with colourful numbers painted on each side.

“Mattie’s a little Mathematician,” Feliciano praised, patting the toddler’s head.

“That’s wonderful,” Francis smiled. He put Mathieu down and reached for the bag he had brought. “I got you a gift, my baby. An early Christmas gift. Go on, open it up.”

Francis and Feliciano watched as Mathieu pulled out a child-sized winter coat. Another child might have been disappointed in the practical gift, which was not for playing with, but Mathieu beamed happily. He put it on and hugged Francis again, padded with layers of heavy, durable fabric. Francis returned the hug, catching sight of Mathieu’s current winter coat hanging by the door: the one with the limp lining and the broken zipper held together with safety pins.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

“Yes, Papa!”

“It’s going to keep you nice and snuggly warm,” Francis cooed, rubbing his nose to his son’s.

“And it looks great on you, Mattie,” Feliciano nodded in approval. “Very stylish.”

“Thanks, again,” said Francis to Feliciano. “I really didn’t expect class to end so late tonight. You’re a lifesaver, as always.”

Feliciano curtseyed theatrically. “My pleasure.”

“Here,” said Francis, offering the teenager a small sweets box.

“Oh, salted caramel! My favourite,” Feliciano accepted with a smile. “Thanks!”

“Do you need a ride home?”

“No, my boyfriend’s coming to get me,” Feliciano said, glancing down at his cell-phone. “I already texted him.”

“Okay. Hey, share those sweets with your brother,” Francis mock-scolded; Feliciano mock-pouted in reply. “I really appreciate him dropping you off earlier.”

“No problem,” Feliciano shrugged. “But I don’t mind taking the bus either, if you need me.”

“Just as long as you’re not taking the bus after dark,” Francis worried.

“Nope,” said Feliciano, at the same time his cell-phone dinged. “Ludwig’s here to get me. The perks of dating someone with a car,” he mused, wiggling his fingers in farewell. “See you tomorrow, Mattie!”

Francis carried the puffy, padded figure of his son back to the blanketed sofa-nest. “Did you have a good day today, baby?”

“ _Mm hmm_ ,” Mathieu murmured, his eyelids heavy. Francis gently stroked his butter-blonde curls, coaxing the toddler back to sleep. “Did you have a good day, too, Papa?”

Francis smiled, and said honestly: “Yes, Mathieu. I actually did.”

* * *

**FELICIANO**

You taste like caramel,” Ludwig rumbled into Feliciano’s lips. His own curled hungrily. “My favourite.”

“Mine, too,” Feliciano flirted, kissing his boyfriend again.

“How was the big, weekly Beilschmidt Family Supper?” he asked, sitting back as Ludwig put the car into drive.

“You’re lucky you missed it.”

“Needs must,” Feliciano teased. “Babysitting waits for no Beilschmidt.”

Ludwig chuckled. “Gil got the job—”

“Oh, that’s great!” Feliciano clapped. “I bet he’s really happy about it, isn’t he? He’s been working so hard.”

“Yeah, he’s happy. Mick even congratulated him—”

“Oh wow, that’s good—”

“—then he said something about Gil finding a boyfriend at his new job—”

“Uh oh,” Feliciano predicted.

“—then he had to remind everyone _again_ that he’s the one getting married, and everyone started talking about the wedding again—”

“Oh no, poor Gil.”

“—and things were said and fists were thrown and Gil gave Mick a bloody nose.”

“Ah,” said Feliciano, biting his lip. “So… all in all, not as bad as usual then?”

Ludwig shrugged. “I mostly pity Bjørn. He gave Mick a lecture for provoking Gil, but I don’t think it did much good. That’s just how Gil and Mick communicate. They’ve always been competitive. And they’re both stubborn as goats.”

“Yeah,” said Feliciano affectionately, slipping his hand into Ludwig’s bigger one and entangling their fingers. “I don’t know _anyone_ else like that.”

Ludwig frowned. “I’m not that bad.”

“Sure, sweetie,” Feliciano soothed. He unwrapped a caramel and popped it into Ludwig’s mouth. “Just keep telling yourself that.”

* * *

**LOVINO**

Fuck,” Lovino cursed, reading the ERROR message on the printer’s screen. He hit PRINT again but the device beeped loudly in protest. “Fuck! Fuck!” he yelled, kicking it.

“ _Stop yelling at me_!”

Frustrated, he yanked the plug from the power outlet and the device went silent. He sighed in relief, however, his brief victory soon melted back into melancholy in the dark, empty silence of the basement office. Not even an office, really, just a concrete corner where his manager had put a huge desktop computer and an equally huge, temperamental printer. He looked from the wheeled chair with the broken wheels to the portable heater that rattled and sometimes smoked to the stack of blank shipping labels piled on the floor. Then he glanced at the clock.

_Just eight more hours_ , he thought miserably, hating the nightshift above and beyond anything else.

If only he could be upstairs in the _actual_ office with all the other clerks, his nights might not be so terrible. But he was the youngest, the newest hire, and “not ready for customer service” said his manager, politely forgetting Lovino’s one-time incident with an unhappy client. Apparently, it was better if he didn’t answer the telephone.

_Apparently_ , he thought bitterly, _it’s better if I don’t interact with other human-beings at all_.

Even the factory workers tended to forget that he was there, and he worked right beside them!

“Fuck,” he said, softer his time as he clenched his fists. He could feel himself getting worked-up, and it was all because of a stupid, ancient printer that couldn’t do the one thing it was made for.

They should just throw it out and replace it with a better one.

There were so many printers in the world, what made this one think it should be special? There were printers that everyone liked better than this one. Printers that didn’t fuck-up.

Would anyone even notice if it wasn’t here?

_Would anyone notice if I wasn’t here_?

His coworkers would probably just repeatedly send passive-aggressive emails from the office, wondering why shipping was behind schedule, rather than actually coming down to investigate. The only time anyone ever came down to his level was if they needed something from the supply closet. They hadn’t saved him a donut when one of the truck drivers brought a box in for everyone. And at the retirement party for a senior staff member, one of the other clerks had called him Lorenzo— _Lorenzo_!—and asked what branch he worked at. He had been _Lorenzo_ to them ever since.

If he walked out right now, would anyone even notice?

Would anyone even care?

“ _Fuck this_ ,” he muttered, wiping his nose.

He turned around—

—and cried-out in surprise.

“ _Ah_!”

“Sorry!” said Antonio, retreating a step. “Didn’t mean to startle you. I thought you heard me coming, Lovi—”

He stopped abruptly, the smile falling from his face. His green eyes grew wide and his brow wrinkled in pity.

That’s when Lovino realized that he was crying.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he spat, turning his back to Antonio and scrubbing furiously at his burning face.

“What’s wrong?” asked the Spaniard, gentle and innocent. “Lovi—?”

“What the fuck is _Lovi_?” he snapped, angry in embarrassment. Angry at himself.

“You,” said Antonio simply. “Lovino Vargas.”

He said it with such confidence, Lovino turned to stare at him in surprise. He still had that sad puppy-dog look on his face, still had that bed-tousled hair, and that warm brown tan that hadn’t faded since summer. He was still happy-go-lucky Antonio, the best-looking man in the factory. He was still the most popular employee, the one who could make everyone laugh and talk his way out of anything. He was still the man whom Lovino watched from a distance, dreaming that one day he would look at _him_. Just him. And now, for some unknown reason, he _was_. It was just as if Lovino had dreamt it.

Well, not _exactly_ how he usually dreamt it. In his dreams, he was not red-faced and crying, and Antonio’s stare was a lot more seductive than it was just then. But this was better in its own imperfect way, because _this was real_.

Antonio really was _looking_ at Lovino. He had a _nickname_ for Lovino. He _knew_ who Lovino was.

“What’s that?” Lovino pointed, redirecting attention.

“Coffee,” Antonio offered. “I already added milk.”

“You know how everyone likes their coffee?” he asked. It _would_ be typical of the factory favourite. But Antonio surprised him:

“No, just you.”

Lovino swallowed the lump in his throat and reached for the coffee cup. It was warm and rich and steam coiled from under the lid, but it wasn’t nearly as soothing as the touch of Antonio’s skin, their hands brushing in the exchange.

“Thanks,” he said quietly, retreating a little.

Antonio followed him. “Do you need a hug?”

“ _What_?”

Antonio’s smile returned. He shrugged. “You look like you need a hug.”

Lovino looked down at the floor. “No one has ever brought me coffee before.”

He flinched when Antonio plucked the coffee cup from his hand and set it down on the desk, but there was no time to reply. The next thing Lovino knew was the warm, strong embrace of his coworker as the Spaniard wrapped him in an invasive, but not at all uncomfortable hug.

“I’ll bring you coffee again,” he promised.

And Lovino completely crumbled. He pressed his forehead to Antonio’s shoulder, and clutched the back of his jacket in tight, desperate fists, and cried. Not loud, gasping sobs, but private tears that caused a shudder. Antonio held him and rubbed his back in comfort until all the tears and shudders stopped. Then they were just standing in the open for any passer-by to see.

“I don’t think this is allowed,” Lovino murmured, still pressed to Antonio’s chest. It was a nice chest, very firm. “If anyone sees—”

“Fuck ‘em,” said Antonio, squeezing Lovino tighter. “What are they going to do? Fire us from this shit job?”

“Hey, I need this shit job,” Lovino laughed nervously. “I have tuition to pay.”

“Yeah, I know. You’re an Economics major, right?”

Lovino felt tears prick his eyes again, only this time they accompanied a smile. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I am.”

“You must be really smart.”

“Yeah, I am.”

Antonio laughed. He patted Lovino’s back once more, then pulled away. “Don’t cry anymore, okay? Your eyes are too pretty for tears.”

Lovino felt himself blush. Quickly, he turned back to the desk and grabbed his coffee. “Damn,” he said, taking a tentative sip, “this is really good.”

“Beats the swill they brew upstairs,” Antonio agreed. “Maybe next time I do a coffee-run for everyone, you can come with me? Help me carry all those fucking treys back.”

“Yeah,” said Lovino, hiding his smile behind the cup, “maybe I will.”

Antonio went back to his work station in the factory, leaving Lovino alone with the taste of coffee and the feel of friendship. Tomorrow, he would buy the coffee, not because he owed Antonio, but because he finally had someone—even just one person—to buy coffee for. It was a good feeling.

Coffee in hand, he plugged the printer back in and sighed in contentment as it printed label after label without stopping.

* * *

**FELICIANO**

Wait, wait—” gasped Feliciano, pushing against Ludwig’s chest. His cell-phone chimed again in a distinct tone. “That’s a text from Lovino.”

“Can’t it wait?” Ludwig groaned.

“Lovino never texts me from his work,” Feliciano worried, wriggling out from under his boyfriend. Ludwig rolled over onto his back and grunted, uninterested.

“I hope everything is okay—”

Feliciano saw the text and stopped. He read it again and smiled. Then he laughed.

“What is it?”

“Nothing to worry about right now,” Feliciano dismissed, tossing his cell-phone aside.

“ _Right now_?” Ludwig asked, his curiosity piqued.

“Well, not unless you _want_ to talk about my brother right now—?” Feliciano teased, walking his fingers across his boyfriend’s broad, naked chest.

Ludwig tried to look disapproving, but his lips twisted into a greedy smile. “Come here,” he growled.

On the floor, Feliciano’s cell-phone glowed in a pile of discarded clothes. The text on the screen read as follows:

Lovino Vargas

THE HOT SPANISH GUY AT WORK HUGGED ME!!

9:35 PM

I think I might actually die ~

9:36 PM

* * *

**THE END**

**THANK-YOU for reading! Reviews are always welcome and appreciated. :)**


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